Red Day
by CumberbatchedInTheTardis
Summary: He didn't know how it happened, but one minute they were in a cab heading back to the flat and the next his whole world fell apart.


He doesn't know how it happened. One minute they were in a cab heading back to the flat and the next it's flipped over and bent in such a way anyone who came upon it wouldn't even be sure it was an actual car instead of a pile of twisted metal. At first, he isn't even aware of his surroundings. All he can hear is a dripping and crackling and then a garbled moan makes its way to his ears and he's alert and ready to move but his legs, damn it all, _his legs won't move! _

"John," it comes out as a rasp of breath. He coughs and tries again, "John, can you hear me? Are you alright?"

There's that garbled noise again and Sherlock pinpoints the direction it's coming from and tries to twist his body, eyes darting, and finally spots the source; John's head is positioned near what Sherlock assumes to be the dash, his legs jutting from his body at odd angles and really, that can't be comfortable at all. But what makes Sherlock's blood run cold is the piece of jagged glass protruding from his neck and the blood staining the ground at an alarming rate.

"John, what—No," he lurches toward the older man, wriggling his legs and finally he's free, but he can't reach John and that's just unacceptable because John's always supposed to be reachable and he isn't supposed to be like this, isn't allowed. He searches for the man's hand, sees the mangled mess of John's legs and winces, continues searching and his eyes finally land on what he's looking for.

"John, I'm going to get help," but he's reaching and grabbing and shoving bits of hot metal out of his way. John's hands are clenched but when the tips of Sherlock's fingers brush over them, they loosen and seek out the wet warmth of Sherlock's fingers and grab and squeeze and don't let go.

There are voices outside of the car now, men and women yelling and talking into their phones and then there are sirens, a sound Sherlock would never be more grateful for, and then John's choking and trying to scream but nothing comes but a spurt of red and more blood flowing and soaking into his jacket and ugly jumper and the ground. "John, no, don't—"and his world is falling apart and he can't do anything to stop it, "stop moving, you have to stop moving, John. The more you move, the more the glass cuts. There are paramedics here, they'll get you out," but they're cutting the car off Sherlock's legs and, "No, not me, I'm fine!" he's yelling and thrashing, "The other man, for God's sake! He needs it more than I do, you bloody mor—_The other man in here with me, him first!"_ but they aren't listening or they can't hear him.

John's cheeks are wet and sallow with blood loss and tears and saliva and Sherlock's screaming helplessly at the incompetent paramedics and John's name and whatever expletive comes to mind and all he can think is, _'Not John, not here,' _but the paramedics are slow and idiots and apparently deaf because John's eyes are fluttering now and his chest isn't rising and falling like it should and Sherlock's vision is blurring, his hands reaching out and grabbing hold of John's in a death grip.

"No, John, stay with me, come on! Couple more minutes, John! You can do it, damn it to hell, _can't you bumbling idiots move any faster?!" _

John's eyes pinch close and there's another gurgle from his throat and Sherlock flails helplessly and screams because the blood won't stop pouring from his neck like a fountain. Sherlock can't stop the feeling of pure, unadulterated hatred coursing through his body.

"John!" The older man's eyes snap open and Sherlock can see them moving, searching for him but he can't because of the glass lodged in his neck and he doesn't want to die staring at some piece of vehicle, he wants to die staring at Sherlock's face because all there ever was or ever will be is Sherlock's face and John knows he won't be able to see that genuine smile that make his insides flutter and his heart clench, or be able to hear Sherlock's belly laugh when he makes a particularly funny joke about something or see Sherlock's eyes light up when Lestrade calls with a murder after a week of absolutely nothing. No more rooftop chases in the middle of the night, no more explosions in the kitchen, no more heads in fridges, no more late nights with the lads from his old Rugby league, no more pints with Lestrade where they talk about Sherlock and grumble to each other about cases or lost matches on the telly.

His lips form the words and he hopes Sherlock can see enough to read what he's saying, 'Don't leave me, Sherlock. Don't ever leave me,' but everything fades to black and he's gone and he's floating and then light and then nothing.

"John, no, don't!"

The older man stops moving, the river of blood transitions slowly into a trickle, and the gurgling and bubbling stop.

"_John! John! No! John! JOHN!"_

The paramedics finally get Sherlock free and he's kicking his legs and crawling towards John, shoving metal and bits of cushion out of the way and crawling over broken seats and shard of glass the cut his hands and knees and poke into his torso and then finally, his hands make contact with John's face and he's wiping John's cheeks and checking John's neck but there's nothing there except for the piece of glass protruding from his neck.

Sherlock can hear the metal shriek above him where they're cutting it and all he can think is if they started with John, they could have removed the glass and stopped the bleeding, that if they weren't so busy being idiots, John would still be alive.

Sherlock vaguely aware of hands grabbing at his legs, pulling on him, but he just kicks them away and stays right where he is, John's name falling from his lips in violent screams and quiet mumbles filled with hatred and anguish.

He didn't know how it happened, but one minute they were in a cab heading back to the flat and the next his whole world fell apart.


End file.
